Your couch

I'm thinking of you as I paint the walls of my bathroom. No correlation, yet as I concentrate on emptying my brain of all this anger, I find it being replaced by memories of you.

I have no idea where you are, if you're married, if you even think of the 19 year old girl who fell so hard for you...and then broke your heart (and her own). I know I think of her...yearn to be more like her again: carefree, spontaneous, free-falling. Myabe you represent those things to me, or brought them out in me, maybe both, maybe neither.

I remember a lot of laughter, your sink overflowing with dirty dishes, spilling out onto your 2 small counters. A fridge full of beer, bread, milk, & leftover mexican food. The terrible futon couch with a comforting blanket always within reach. Your dark bedroom-tangled sheets, clothes all over the floor. Your poetry stuffed in the top drawer of your nightstand. 

Late nights drinking mingle in my mind with the sun rising on us, barely awake on the couch on your porch. Naked and exposed to one another, only breaths between us. 

I hadn't thought of that until now. 

Do you remember? 

I took a path, maybe unintended, and it was gorgeous in spite of the pain along the way. And this entire time, all these years, I've never thought of the life, trust, love, contentment, and peace in that moment between us, when dawn arrived, warming our faces.

As my path takes a new turn, I yearn for all of that again.